


Acclimatising

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: One Shots [7]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e01 Brother's War, Established Relationship, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1312312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aslaug doesn't understand Athelstan's place in the household. Ragnar sets her straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acclimatising

Once Lagertha was gone, Athelstan expected there to be an upheaval in the household, as Aslaug found places for her ladies and rearranged the servants to her pleasure. It was not surprising then, that when he was passing through the Hall one afternoon, she waved a hand imperiously at him, calling for more wine.

Athelstan looked to her carefully, to test her sincerity, but her look was bored, solemn, not inflammatory or spiteful. She meant no offense, but was likely to take some, if her confusion was anything to go by. She obviously wanted to know why Athelstan was not scurrying off to do her bidding, and he quickly caught the eye of a watching slave-girl, indicating to her to do as the Jarl’s new wife asked.

When the girl had returned and topped up her mistresses’ cup, Athelstan stepped close to Aslaug's chair, keeping his voice low; “Be careful not to order the free men like common thralls, my lady. Others are more quick to anger than I.”

Her nostrils flared in surprise, a slight blush rising to her high cheek bones, embarrassed by her mistake. Athelstan had hoped that would be an end of it, but the Princess is more curious than he had thought, and he felt her eyes burning into him across the Hall that evening as they supped.

Athelstan was sat at the first table, amongst Ragnar’s most trusted friends, advisors and warriors both. He had not felt out of place here for some time, but he fidgeted now, uncertain under her piercing gaze. He drank less than usual because of it, retiring to bed early. It didn’t help; she is fat with child, and also retired to her rooms before the general revelry.

Athelstan did not expect her to follow him, or rap sharply on his bedroom door. The room was snug, but it was private, and contained a real bed, not just a pallet tucked out of sight like back at the old house before it burnt. He had already stripped down to his undershirt, but he opened the door quickly, expecting Ragnar or perhaps Floki with some urgent news.

Instead, his Jarl’s new woman is standing there, with an almost angered look, painting her features into sharp relief in the flickering candlelight.

“This is where you sleep?” She demanded, almost defying him not to answer.

“It is,” Athelstan confirmed. For the first time, he felt frightened for what her arrival could mean for his own place in the household, when she stormed away without so much as a backwards glance.

-*-

He didn’t mean to overhear the conversation, but Ragnar was late to spar with him, so naturally Athelstan went to looking. He found Ragnar in the treaty room, where the Jarl discussed raids and other important business with his advisors, and entertained important visitors when they needed to talk privately. Ragnar was sat at the table, Aslaug obviously only recently joined him; she was still wearing her outdoor furs. Through the latticed shutters covering the doorway, Athelstan heard her speak.

“I do not understand it. He is an able-bodied man, of no relation to you. Why should you provide him with room and board, when he should have a household of his own?” She said.

“Athelstan is loyal to me.” It is no answer at all, and Aslaug dismisses it as such.

“Then give him land! A farm.” She placed hand on his shoulder, seductive now. “We will need all the space we have for our many sons. Besides, I do not want him hearing things he should not, in our private rooms.”

“I will keep him with me,” Ragnar disagreed simply, “Athelstan would not tell a soul anything he may overhear. He never has before.”

Suddenly her face changed, darkened with revulsion and annoyance; “He is ergi? Is that why you keep him?” She spits out the words, as though it personally offends a woman of her breeding to have to discuss such things.

Ragnar chuckles, completely unaffected by her ire. “Nothing so harsh as that. Athelstan is quite skilled with the axe.”

Ergi do not take up arms, Athelstan knows. They are content to be kept by more powerful men, treated almost as slave-girls, only with more pampering and expensive trinkets as gifts. There are only three or four such men in Kattegat, all of whom had originally been brought here as slaves during raids. The breeding of northmen just doesn’t seem to result in the submissive nature required of ergi; their sons spend far too much time training to be warriors for that.

“Then it is disgraceful.” Aslaug declared, forcing Athelstan to pay attention to her again. “To treat a free man as you would a thrall! You should release him, so he may begin his own family.”

For one heart-wrenching moment, Athelstan believed that something in Aslaug’s tone would convince Ragar to do just that, thinking it would be what Athelstan wanted. But the Viking’s possessive nature was too strong to be undone by one wilful woman.

“Just because Athelstan is no thrall, it does not make him any less mine.” Ragnar’s tone is flat, dull with finality. He will not be moved on this. Aslaug must have heard it too, because she said no more, only pressed her lips closed in a thin line of disapproval.

“You should not feel threatened by him. He cannot provide me sons, after all.” Ragnar’s tone was light, but the implications were clear; she had only won her place in his household because of the child, and she would do well to remember it. Athelstan was seemingly of no use to Ragnar, and yet the Jarl would not be persuaded to give him up. He was special in a way that Aslaug was not, yet, and she would never be if she continued to press him in directions he did not wish to be pressed.

Her cheek had paled at the clear warning, and she nodded. “As you wish, husband.”

The discussion was over; Athelstan melted into the shadows to avoid being seen by Aslaug as she stalked out, the shutters banging behind her, bouncing together so that they did not close properly in her wake.

Once she was at the far end of the longhall and out of earshot, Ragnar’s voice called out; “Athelstan? Come out, little priest.”

Athelstan felt his cheeks burn, humiliated to have been caught listening in, just as Aslaug had suspected of him. Obediently, he slipped into the small room, closing the shutters securely; anything to avoid his Jarl’s gaze a while longer. Even as he turned to face Ragnar, he kept his eyes fixed at a low point, somewhere around the Jarl’s scruffed chin.

“I’m sorry, Jarl Ragnar. I only came to remind you of our sparring. I didn’t mean to linger so long.”

Ragnar’s calloused hand beckoned him closer. When he was within touching distance, Ragnar reached up and grasped hold of his chin, bringing Athelstan’s face down to force him to meet his eyes. But his touch was not harsh, and his blue eyes twinkled with familiar mischief.

“I am glad of your boldness, Athelstan. Once you were a mouse... and now you are the cat that catches the mouse, no?”

Then he dragged Athelstan even closer, biting his lower lip before caressing it with a smooth lick, slowly devouring him in his kiss.

"Besides," he whispered, "Now you will know I will never give you up for the whims of a woman."

Athelstan's only answer was a moan, as he allowed himself to be dragged onto Ragnar's lap to be debauched.

-*-

Supper that night is torture; Ragnar won’t take his eyes off him, smouldering Athelstan with his licentious looks. Aslaug is furious at being ignored, and Athelstan embarrassed by the obvious attention. He kept ducking Ragnar’s eyes, trying to focus on his food, the wine, and the bawdy stories being told all around him.

It was no use. Ragnar called him over, taking hold of his hand to kiss his knuckles in the Saxon custom. Athelstan has taught him many things about his home culture, so he knows that Ragnar is aware of exactly what he’s doing. As though anyone in the Hall could be unaware of his intentions, Ragnar made it all the more obvious. He stood and said, far louder than necessary; “I grow weary of these brutes and their coarse tongues! Come, Athelstan, teach me some more of your polished ways.”

Then he lead him by the hand, not to Athelstan’s room, but his own lavish chambers. As always, Athelstan’s protests were weak, and he allowed Ragnar to fuck him into the marriage bed, digging his nails into the Viking’s shoulders and locking his ankles together behind Ragnar's back. Ragnar is a thorough lover, in every sense of the word, but still Athelstan cannot shake a small distraction; the knowledge that Ragnar baiting his new wife like this isn’t going to end well.

 


End file.
